


What Are You Scared Of?

by RedAndRedder



Series: About A Boy [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Duke Thomas is Signal, Gen, Graphic-ish?, If DC won't give me Batdad then I'll do it myself, Jason Todd Angst, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Tim Drake is Red Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedAndRedder/pseuds/RedAndRedder
Summary: Jason takes a hit of Scarecrow's newest fear toxin and runs it out in front of everyone. Unsurprisingly, they are concerned about him. He kinda just wants them to leave him alone.





	1. Scarecrow Sucks

“Look out!” is the warning that comes _just_ too late.

The needle of a dart buries itself into Jason’s shoulder – right between the Kevlar plates and through his under armour. _Shit_ , Crane’s aim has gotten better. He reaches around and rips it out, but it’s too late. Almost immediately, everything begins to blur and sway. His skin prickles and suddenly, it’s all too bright, too loud, _too much_.

Fuck, it has to be a new strain – if it’s affecting _him_ like this.

Somewhere to his left, he can hear Bruce approaching him and Batman’s shadow flitters across the rooftop like a demon. Though it isn’t until he feels Bruce grab his shoulder that he actually registers who it is. Instinctively, he recoils against the touch, already feeling the paranoia settling in, and Bruce steps back.

“Hood,” comes Tim’s voice from somewhere behind him. It’s low and soft, like Jason’s a startled animal – although he supposes that it’s not an entirely unfair analogy. As much as he’s fighting it, he can feel it taking over and much faster than he’d like it to. Shadows are flickering in his peripherals and there’s this noise in the back of his head that sounds too much like a cackle. “It’s just me.”

He staggers forwards a little when the floor starts to move under his feet and someone reaches out, grazing his arm. Jason turns sharply, barely catching his own footing as he scrambles back. “Get the fuck away from me.” _I can’t breathe._ “All of you need to back the fuck up.”

He really doesn’t want to wake up and find out that he’s hurt one of them because they’d gotten too handsy. A blur of black and blue steps back. _I can’t fucking breathe._ Everything is spinning now and it feels like his helmet is shrinking.

“He’s gonna fall,” comes a voice that he’s certain is Steph. Or maybe Barbara? He can’t tell anymore.

Whoever it was, they’re right because his knees almost immediately give out. He feels Bruce catch him and he weakly struggles against it. Bruce carefully lowers him onto the wet concrete of the rooftop and then steps away. “Helmet,” he manages to croak, his chest constricting painfully. “Off.”

The latches on the sides of his helmet are undone and then it slips off. _I can’t let it take me_ , he thinks. It’s _all_ he can think. He knows exactly where the toxin will take him and it’s going to have to take him there kicking and screaming.

The air is cold and so is the concrete. It’s almost painful – the sensation of it pressed to his face. If he moves, there are little pieces of gravel on the ground that scratch against his skin. There’s the comforting weight of his gear still on his body. He can see the stars.

_Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she peeped into the book that her sister read, but it had no pictures or conversation in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice, ‘without pictures or conversation.’_

His left boot is laced up a little tighter than his right one, but he never had the chance to adjust it during patrol. When he breathes, a little cloud of pale vapour appears in front of his face. He can feel the ridges of the lock picks that are sewn into the hem of his under-armour.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife._

He shifts his right foot in his boot and feels the outline of the credit card knife that’s stashed in the sole. The packet of nicotine gum in his jacket pocket digs into his side a little when he moves. The air smells like rain – what was the word for it? _Pet… Petrichor? Yeah, that’s it._ The air smells like petrichor.

_But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon. Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious: Her vestal livery is but sick and green-_

His entire body jolts and he can feel himself being dragged into the dark recesses of his mind. _Fuck_.

Everything fades to black and then, it’s painfully bright. He recognises it as the shitty fluorescent lightbulbs of his childhood home – well, apartment, anyway. It’s quiet and that only causes dread to set into his stomach like lead.

He feels something strike the side of his head and he falls back, hand moving up to shield himself. His fingertips graze blood and broken glass. He’s hit again and again and again – his back is covered in bruises and welts and cuts that bleed into his clothes, and he feels _small_. He can barely hear Willis’ drunken shouting over the sound of his own whimpers.

Then it stops and that’s somehow so much worse.

It goes black again for a few minutes and suddenly, he’s in an alleyway. He feels his skin being burned by cigarettes, fingernails digging into his arm, his hair being yanked. He feels _dirty_ and he grits his teeth. The smell of cheap liquor and sweat settles into the air and he can’t breathe.

He knows that it’s all in his head, but it does little to stop him crying.

It grows dark again and Jason is thankful for the relief. Until his vision focuses again. He’s in the bathroom, clinging to his mother’s body. He shakes with anguished sobs. Her skin is cold and damp against his. Her eyes stare up at him, wide and lifeless. He’s _alone_.

His grip on her body tightens and he feels her dissolve in his arms. When he realises where he is this time, he lets out a strangled cry that half catches in his throat. His hands are tied behind his back, rope cutting into the raw flesh of his wrists. The laughter that still haunts him floods the air. He feels his bones break, and his skin cut and burned. _What hurts more? Forehand? Or backhand?_ He feels his own blood trickle down his skin, mingling with _months_ of dirt and sweat.

This isn’t the worst thing that he’s going to face. It’s definitely one of them, but it isn’t the worst.

Then, there’s the beeping of a timer – the numbers flashing red – and he freezes. There’s sobbing in his ear, though not his own – a woman’s. He feels the dampness of her tears soaking through the remains of his suit. He wants to hate her for what she did to him, but he can’t And he hates himself for being so _weak_.

The blast comes and the heat of fire licks at his skin, leaving a burning numbness. His lungs fill with smoke and soot, and he coughs and splutters, desperate for air. He’s _dead_.

When he wakes again, it’s still pitch black and he can’t move – everything is _too close_. His hands shoot out, hitting the lining of his coffin and his heartbeat staggers in his chest. He cries out, _begs_ , until his voice shatters and then, he sobs until he can’t breathe.

He claws his way out, fuelled by desperation and sheer instinct. His fingertips are bloody and raw, and his entire body is trembling. He staggers a few feet before his legs buckle. Jason Todd is _alive_ and that is only the start of his problems.

This time, the black fades out faster. His lungs burn as he drowns, and he reaches out, looking for the surface. He’s submerged for what seems like an eternity.

He knows exactly what is going to come next.

He feels the punches – his face going through porcelain and lodging shards into his skin. That isn’t what breaks him, though. It’s that moment on the rooftop, all those years ago. He has a gun to that fucker’s head and he’s _won_ , goddammit. Then he feels something sharp hit his throat, and he chokes and gurgles. Warm blood spills out over his hands.

The flames of another explosion echo in his head and he lies there, hoping that he’ll just _die._

He’s dragged out of the rubble and tossed into the back of a jet. Talia’s fingers comb through his hair – slowly pushing him under her thumb. The next year and a half are worse than hell.

He’ll never submit, though. No matter how much they torture or drug or beat him, they’ll manage little more than to desensitise him to the sound of his own bones snapping and the feeling of agony flaring through his veins from a syringe. If _he_ hadn’t broken Jason, Ra’s Al Ghul sure as fuck isn’t going to.

Not that Talia will allow him to get _that_ far – as cold and cruel as she can be, she protects him, _cares_ about him even. She cares about him enough to stop her father having Jason’s throat slit every time Jason tells him to fuck off; enough to tend to his wounds after Jason antagonises his teachers into attacking him.

It’s all about making him stronger, making him _more_. That’s what she tells him. And, although he resents her for toying with him, he has to agree. His teachers and training make him better than he was before – than _they_ are. It almost takes away the sting of being replaced, of being left like they couldn’t wait to get rid of him, of having his entire existence reduced to nothing but a cautionary tale.

He feels himself coming back, slowly regaining control over his body. The rooftop is cold against the bare skin of his face. He forces himself to sit up. There’s some vague movement around him, but he ignores it, focusing on trying to orientate himself.

“Breathe.” Bruce’s voice is commanding – as it always is in the cowl – but it’s soft, soothing nearly. “Just breathe, Jay.”

He obeys, taking long breaths and leaning into Bruce. Bruce begins to count quietly, even and slow, until Jason’s breathing steadies enough for everything to fade back into reality.

“Shit,” he mumbles, drawing his knees up to his chest. _God_ , his throat feels like it’s been sandpapered. He glances around; beside himself and Bruce, the rooftop is empty. “How long was I…”

Bruce doesn’t respond and that gives Jason a good enough estimate – _too long_. He tries to stand up, but his legs don’t quite manage to support him. Bruce reaches out to hold him up. “You need to rest.”

Jason shakes his head. “Jus’ wanna go home.”

Bruce adjusts them so that he’s supporting more of Jason’s weight and begins walking them across the rooftop. “Which one of your safehouses is closest?”

Jason frowns, trying to get his thoughts in line long enough to answer. “Par’ Row. Twenty… Twenty-six. Third floor. North balcony.”

It’s one of the shittier ones, but it’s only ten minutes away and Jason is just about ready to fall asleep on the concrete.

Bruce nods and brings them to the edge of the rooftop, where the fire-escape is. They begin to descend and Jason stumbles on a few of the steps. Bruce’s grip on him tightens and he’s now almost completely holding Jason up.

Bruce helps him into the batmobile and then, he blacks out. The journey there seems faster than it should be. He’s barely even lucid when they get to the apartment complex. “We need to grapple up. Hold on, okay?”

He gives a weak nod against Bruce’s shoulder and grips onto his cape, right where it meets with his shoulder. He feels the rush of cold through his hair and a little wave of nausea, and then, they’re on solid ground again. “Keys?”

It takes a moment for him to process what Bruce is asking for, and another moment to wake up his body enough to react.

“’nside pock’t,” he murmurs, his voice beginning to slur. He gives a tiny gesture towards his jacket and then feels Bruce rifling through them before fishing out a ring of keys. Bruce begins to sort through them and the light clanging of metal goes straight through him. “Six.”

Bruce nods and the door unlocks with a quiet click. They walk through and Jason’s foot catches on the edge of the doorframe. It’s a small, two-room apartment – calling it an apartment doesn’t even feel right. There are three pieces of furniture: a mattress, an armchair and a chest of drawers.

Jason staggers away from Bruce and all but collapses onto the mattress with a small, muffled groan. His eyes fall shut and his body goes limp.

Bruce stands there for a moment, watching Jason sleep. If it not for the costume and the brand on his face, he looks just like any other kid his age. The thought makes his chest ache. He approaches Jason carefully, wary of waking him – Jason’s always been a light sleeper.

He kneels beside him, feeling for a pulse. It’s stronger and steadier than it had been before and that makes him relax a little. Then, he goes to work, slowly prying off Jason’s boots, jacket and Kevlar until he’s just in his under-armour. He places Jason’s covers over him and the way that he curls up under them makes Bruce’s chest tighten.

He steps back and settles in the armchair in the corner, pulling back his cowl.

“Hey,” comes Barbara’s voice through the comms. “How is he?”

“Better,” Bruce says quietly. “He’s asleep. I think that I’ll stay here and keep an eye on him.”

“Okay. See you later. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He settles further into the chair, the leather creaking slightly as he does. Silence falls over the room and all that remains is the soft sound of Jason’s breathing and Bruce’s thoughts.

At the best of times, Bruce is a glutton for punishment, and when it comes to Jason, there’s no shortage of things to punish himself for. It doesn’t help that he could practically track what Jason experienced – every memory that he was forced to relive.

His heart started to crack when Jason went through his death again – when Jason woke up in his coffin and _screamed_ Bruce’s name until his voice broke. And then, it shattered into a million fucking pieces when Jason grasped at his throat and gargled like it’d been slit. It was a horrible, _awful_ noise that he’s certain will be keeping him up at night.

It hurts even more, however, to know that _he_ had done that to Jason. To his own son.

Jason stirs a little in his sleep, whimpering quietly, and Bruce tenses. The noises grow louder and more erratic until Jason is crying and heaving so hard that Bruce isn’t sure that he’s still breathing.

Bruce panics for a moment and his blood goes ice-cold in his veins. Then, he moves, sweeping across the room and crouching down beside Jason. He rests a hand on Jason’s forehead and the second that he makes contact, Jason’s fist flies out and clips the side of Bruce’s face.

He falls back, slightly stunned, and he’s suddenly reminded of how strong Jason is. He’s easily bigger than Bruce now and god only knows what the Lazarus Pit did to him. He also remembers how jumpy Jason can be sometimes and decides that he needs to change tactics.

“Jason.” His voice is low and soft – right now, he’s not Batman; he’s Jason’s dad. “Jason, it’s Bruce.”

Jason frowns in response and some emotion flickers across his face. Bruce decides that he’s better off not trying to decipher it.

“Jay, I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?” Jason shakes his head frantically, muttering. “Come on, champ, you need to breathe. _Please_.”

Jason’s body trembles as he forces himself to take a deep breath. He takes another and another and another, and Bruce begins counting like he did on the rooftop. Eventually, Jason slips back into a less fitful sleep.

He stirs a few more times during the night, though nothing as bad as the first time. Bruce jolts upright every time he moves, every time that he takes a breath that is just a little _too_ sharp. The sun is rising now, and sunlight is beginning to stream in through windows.

Jason wakes up, sprawling out over the mattress. He lays there for a while, crying silently. Bruce is long gone, but Jason knows that he was there.


	2. The Other Side

It almost happens in slow motion. Scarecrow takes deliberate aim at Red Hood, who’s too busy defending Batman’s back to notice. Robin is the one who spots him and calls out a warning – but it’s too late. The dart sinks into Hood’s shoulder and he swears over the comms.

He reaches around and yanks it out, sending the thing skittering across the rooftop. The toxin already seems to be taking effect – he seems sluggish.

It’s concerning, especially considering that Scarecrow’s usual concoction didn’t really affect Hood all that much. He got twitchy and bitched about hearing and seeing things that weren’t there, but he didn’t go through the fits of terror that the rest of them did. They’ve all assumed that it’s something to do with the Lazarus Pit, but none of them have ever actually asked him.

It takes under a minute for him to start swaying. Scarecrow’s men have started to scatter and Crane has already made his escape.

“Black Bat, Signal, Spoiler, go after them.”

“On it.”

Batman approaches Hood and cautiously touches his shoulder. Hood flinches away and it’s obvious how bad it is already. Batman moves back, not wanting to provoke him. It doesn’t look like he’ll get violent, but no one wants to take that risk.

Red Robin lands on the rooftop softly and comes up to him. Hood bristles at the sound of his footsteps and his hands hovers over his gun, fingers twitching slightly. “Hood, it’s just me.”

He doesn’t relax, though it does look like he’s ignoring Red now. He lurches forwards suddenly and Nightwing reaches out immediately. His fingertips graze Hood’s arm and he pulls away sharply, barely catching his footing in time.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” he says. The voice modifier on his helmet just about masks how shaky his voice is. “All of you need to back the fuck up.”

Nightwing steps back defensively. Hood’s breathing is getting more and more uneven and desperate, and his entire body is shaking. He stands there for a moment, wobbling, and his legs are trembling in a way that can only mean one thing:

“He’s gonna fall,” Batgirl says. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Hood’s knees buckle and he collapses. Batman catches him, and, even then, Hood battles weakly against it. He lays Hood down on the concrete and immediately steps away.

“Helmet,” he rasps out after a few seconds of struggling. “Off.”

Red kneels down hesitantly and undoes the latches, then clumsily tugs it off. Hood gasps for air, clawing at the ground. Red tucks Hood’s helmet under his arm and stands up, noting that Hood is muttering under his breath. It sounds like complete nonsense, but he figures that it’s a way to delay the inevitable.

“We lost ‘em,” comes Spoiler’s voice over the comms.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nightwing answers. “Come back. We might need back up.”

Hood’s body gives one last jolt and then he stops. For a moment, they think that he’s beaten it.

He flinches and his arms move up to shield his head. He keeps wincing like he’s being hit and _whimpering_. It’s a soft, broken noise that’s made all the worse by the bravado that Hood always seems to have – the infallible confidence that he always holds himself with. He looks like a little kid. For the first time in longer than any of them could remember, he looks small.

They can only guess what he’s going through, though the way that Batman’s teeth ground together says that he knows. Watching Hood feels wrong – like this is something that none of them were ever meant to see.

Behind them, the others land on the rooftop, but no one reacts. Their attention is focused solely on Hood.

It takes forty minutes for him to stop. Then tension runs out of his body all at once and his hair is slick with sweat.

Then he curls up so tightly that it looks painful. His hands thread through his hair and he’s crying again – silent tears that leak through his domino mask. The thought of removing it briefly flickers through their minds, but none of them want to get too close.

This isn’t as difficult to watch, but the way that he mutters to himself is still deeply unsettling. “C’mon, Jay.” His accent is suddenly much thicker. “You can do it. Just a little longer.” It takes another twenty minutes for him to stop this time, though he almost immediately starts wailing. He screams and cries so loudly that it actually makes some of them flinch.

“No. No. No. Mom, please wake up. Please wake up. _Mom_. C’mon. C’mon. Please just wake up.”

Batman’s hand is lingering over the tranquiliser on his belt and Nightwing is gripping his wrist tightly.

“We don’t know how it’ll work with the toxin.”

His hand begrudgingly moves away and he folds his arms across his chest, tensing whenever Jason lets out a particularly pained cry. “Get the others back to the cave. They shouldn’t have to watch this.”

Nightwing nods and turns around. “Why don’t you guys go back to the cave? We’ve got this.”

Spoiler and Signal move to leave, but Black Bat doesn’t. “No,” she says resolutely, shaking her head. “I have to stay – need to protect him.”

“That’s fine,” Spoiler says quickly, releasing Black Bat’s hand from her own. “Signal and I can go. We’ll tell you when we get back to the cave.”

She tugs at Signal’s hand, pulling him away. They grapple off the rooftop and are out of sight within a few minutes. Nightwing glances around at the others, who are all stood in place with firm expressions. They don’t seem as affected as Signal and Spoiler, but it’s clear that this is starting to get to them.

It’s the next few that whittle away at them. Everyone knows when Hood gets to the Joker – the tension settles into the air like thick smog. It starts with a quiet cry that forces its way out of him. He thrashes and sobs desperately.

They all watch and _hate_ that they can’t do anything else. Batman’s teeth grind together so hard that it’s almost audible.

“No. No! No! Get the fuck away from me.” His voice is shrill from panic. “Please. No! Don’t-”

His head lurches back into the concrete and he bucks wildly. They can almost _hear_ the brand burning into his skin.

It takes forty-five minutes for him to finally escape. His head drops a little and his breathing steadies for a moment. The air suddenly feels lighter.

But then, Hood’s head snaps up and pure fear spreads across his face. After a few seconds, there’s another emotion – resignation, _acceptance_. He coughs and splutters and chokes until it seems like he’s about to bring up blood, and his entire body goes slack.

He rolls limply onto his back, skin pale and clammy. His breathing is so shallow that they’re not entirely sure that he _is_ still breathing. He… He looks _dead_.

An eternity passes before he begins to move again. It starts with small twitches and his face screwing up a little. His hands fly out, though they stop abruptly halfway, as if they had struck something.

“Batman?” he mumbles, voice catching a little in his throat. It’s hopeful and _innocent_ , and it breaks their hearts. Batgirl and Nightwing are crying – tears streaming down their faces in rivers. Hood repeats himself, sharp panic flaring in his voice. He begins sobbing and pounding his fists on his coffin. “Batman! Batman! I’m in here! I’m in here! I’m-” His face falls with the realisation. “No, no, no, no, no, no. God, no. _Please_.”

“Oh, god,” Red Robin mutters, turning away. “I can’t- I just… I _can’t_.”

Nightwing reaches out, forcing his eyes away from Hood and resting a hand on Red’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Red. You can go if you need to.”

Red nods, dragging a hand over his face. He mumbles something about running some tests and Nightwing gives his shoulder a small squeeze before releasing him. He notes that Batgirl leaves with him, but he doesn’t move to stop her.

“Batman! Batman. Help me. Please. Fuck, _someone_. Help. Bruce!” His voice is already beginning to wane, but it doesn’t seem to matter. “Bruce! Please, Bruce. Bruce. Bruce…”

He fucking _breaks_ – he sobs and wails, and it’s a hopeless, broken noise.

By the time that he digs himself out, his voice is almost too gone to hear anymore, but they can all see that he’s still crying. Every movement he makes if stiff and pained. He continues to struggle for a few more seconds before his entire body seizes and tenses.

It looks like he’s drowning. His hands reach out desperately and there’s this helplessness in his face that hurts to look at.

“The Lazarus Pit,” Robin mumbles – barely even a whisper. His hands are bound into tight fists down by his sides to stop them from shaking.

Hood flinches, locked in another battle. He fights back this time, though – throwing a punch or a kick every so often; he moves to draw his weapons a few times. It’s still crystal clear that he’s taking a hell of a beating, but the fact that he is, at the very least, _trying_ to fight back makes it more bearable.

“Bruce,” he whispers. Batman’s jaw tenses like he’s trying to crack his own teeth – it’d probably be less painful than watching this. “I forgive you for not saving me. But _why?_ Why on god’s earth is _he_ still alive?”

The tension in the air is so thick that it’s impossible to breathe – Batman looks like he’s stopped trying to. “Go.”

His voice is as monotonous and unfeeling as it always is in the cowl, but it’s laced with venom and anger and _desperation_. There’s something that he doesn’t want them to see.

“B,” Nightwing says soothingly, moving to rest a hand on his shoulder. He grabs it before Nightwing can touch him and his grip is so tight that it hurts.

_“Now.”_

Nightwing pulls away from his grip, rubbing his wrist absently. “Come on, guys,” he says, herding them towards the ledge. “Time to go.”

Black Bat goes willing and she’s reading through Batman’s armour in a way that he _hates_ sometimes. Robin isn’t as easy to get moving. It’s not like he _wants_ to watch; it’s more that he can’t bring himself to look away. But before they can make it to the edge, it happens.

Hood lets out a choking noise and his hands clasp around his throat. He starts gargling and heaving for air. They’ve stopped again, but Batman can’t bring himself to turn and look at them. It’s too late now, anyway.

Nightwing pulls half-heartedly at their capes, but he can’t tear his eyes away either. _God_ … that’s something that’ll haunt him for a while.

He looks at Hood’s neck – thinks of that slash of scar tissue that runs across his throat – and at Batman, who’s stiff with guilt and something _clicks_.

He finally manages to pull his eyes away and tugs at the others, forcing them to go with him. He casts one last look at Batman as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just chapter one but from another perspective, but whatevs. It was also originally part of a much longer chapter but I've decided to split it into two, so that will be coming sometime soon. I also re-wrote the first chapter, but not a lot changed -- just some little touch-ups and small details (Jason's age isn't specified anymore and Barbara calls Bruce instead of Dick). It isn't really that important but it just makes more sense for later in the story.
> 
> Anyway, you guys know the drill: comments and kudos are very appreciated and genuinely really help with motivation.


	3. The Kids Aren't Alright

The sound of Steph’s motorbike roaring into the cave is deafening – echoing sharply against the cave walls – but it sounds wrong without the symphony of the others. She and Duke came back in silence, not quite sure what to say and not quite sure what they’re supposed to feel.

Alfred’s there – as he is every night – ready to see to any injuries. They dismount from the bike, still shaky, and Alfred’s face drops ever so slightly in confusion. He quirks up an eyebrow in question.

“The others are… uh, still out,” she says, voice raspy. She swipes the back of her hand over her eyes tiredly. “Hood… _Jason_. Jason took a hit of fear toxin. It was… It was bad.”

Alfred nods, though his eyes glimmer with worry. Even though he’ll never admit it aloud, Jason is probably Alfred’s favourite (at least that’s what it looks like to Steph) – he definitely worries about Jason more than he does the rest of them, anyways. Steph feels a pang of guilt at her wording; Alfred is probably assuming the worst.

“He’s gonna be fine, though,” she adds quickly. “It wasn’t… It didn’t look… It’s just that he’s not usually…”

“Jason isn’t usually as affected by Scarecrow’s fear toxin,” Alfred finishes. Steph nods and Alfred turns sharply on his heels, his calm demeanour firmly back in place. “Seeing as though both of you have had quite a distressing night, I believe that hot chocolate is in order.”

“You’re the best, Alfred. Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure, Stephanie.” And with that, Alfred makes off towards the elevator.

Steph turns her attention to Duke, who is staring bleakly at the floor. He’s still pretty new and hasn’t seen the effects of fear toxin up close – it’s never a pleasant thing to see. But especially not on someone like Jason, who’s got _baggage_ by anyone’s standards. Duke looks like he’s replaying what he saw, and Steph knows from experience that it’s never good to get inside your own head too much.

“Hey,” she says quietly, nudging him. He jolts slightly and looks at her blearily. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” he says after a few moments, shrugging. “I just… I don’t know.”

Steph nods. “Wanna talk about it?”

Duke shrugs again and Steph pulls him over to the stairs that lead up to the batcomputer. “I know that it’s rough to see someone like that,” she says, resting a hand on his knee. “Especially when they’re normally as stubborn and pig-headed as Jason.”

Steph cracks a grin and Duke gives a weak smile back. “I’m gonna have to re-evaluate where I’ve put Scarecrow on my threat-list.”

Steph cackles – louder and more enthusiastically than was really due, but it’s keeping the mood light. Duke breaks out into a genuine, albeit small, smile, and he lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well,” she says, shrugging nonchalantly, “at the end of the day, Crane’s still just a nerd with a bag on his head.”

The laughter dies out slowly and that pensive look returns to Duke’s face. Steph gives a sad smile and nudges him again. “Jason’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”

Duke nods. “I know. It’s just that…” He frowns a little before shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“Come on,” she says, “I wanna hear it.”

He looks at her for a moment. “It’s just that- Jason told me about his mom after he found out about my parents. And when he was… It just kinda…”

She nods sympathetically, before deciding to divert the conversation a little. “I didn’t know that you and Jason talked.”

“We’re not… We’re _cool_ , I guess? It’s not like the rest of you,” Duke says, frowning a little. “We hang out – watch movies, play video games, and stuff. He gives me advice sometimes.”

“That sounds like friends to me.”

Duke shrugs again and his expression is one that Steph recognises. He doesn’t feel like he fits in – like he _belongs_. “I help him cook sometimes,” Duke says quietly. “He’s _really_ good at it though, so I don’t know why.”

Steph raises an eyebrow at that. “He _lets_ you help him? Like willingly?”

Duke nods. “Yeah?”

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “He doesn’t let the rest of us.” She shakes her head. “Tim got banned from going into the kitchen unsupervised because he accidentally put a fork in Jason’s microwave. It started a fire.” She grins at Duke and elbows him playfully. “If you and Jason aren’t friends, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Duke smiles to himself, nodding.

“How’d you two even meet?” she asks, staring up into the dark roof of the cave. “Your patrol route doesn’t go near Jason’s turf.”

“It was like last year, I think,” Duke says. “I came across this robbery and the guy bolted before I could get him. He made it all the way to Bowery before I cornered him, but he had a gun and he… y’know.”

She nods, vaguely remembering it as the first time that Bruce had ever been _pissed_ at Duke. Though she’s certain that it was just because Bruce was worried and also emotionally inept.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he says, only half-joking. Steph looks at him sympathetically – the first time that realisation hits is tough. “But then Jason showed up and saved me. I mean, I still thought that I was gonna die, because it was the _Red Hood_.”

Steph gives a small snort of laughter at that, mumbling something about Jason being ‘all bark, no bite.’

“He asked me if I was okay and I was just… confused. Like _really_ confused.” Duke frowns to emphasise his point. “He took me to one of his safehouses and I was a little less terrified, but it was still very… surreal. He patched me up and it was weird how chill he was about the whole thing. Like he offered me _food_ – I think those were probably the nicest leftovers that I’ve ever eaten.”

Steph nods. “Bruce benched you after that, didn’t he? He thought that you were in _Bowery_ by yourself. You could have told him. Jason and Bruce have been cool for a few years.”

“Jason told me not to,” Duke says simply. “He said that he didn’t want Bruce to get any ideas about him becoming some sappy babysitter like Dick. His words, not mine, by the way.”

“That sounds like Jay. Dramatic as always,” Steph says amusedly. “You know that was probably just a test, right? Jason has this thing about trust – can’t exactly blame him, but still… he was definitely just testing you.”

To Steph’s surprise, Duke just shrugs. “I figured it was something like that. His excuse was kinda lame.”

“Yeah, Jason sucks _ass_ at excuses,” she says, shaking her head very solemnly. “Couldn’t lie his way out of a wet paper bag.”

-

Tim and Barbara return about an hour and a half later. They both look _awful_ – hair mussed by their helmets, and eyes red and dry. Tim has dart zipped up in a plastic bag that’s clutched in his hand and Jason’s helmet tucked under his arm.

Steph and Duke look up from the game of Monopoly that Alfred brought down to distract them. Identical looks of concern plaster their faces when they realise that Tim and Barbara are alone.

“He’s still…” Duke whispers, watching Barbara and Tim dismount their bikes. “Isn’t he?”

“I think so,” Steph replies, frowning. “Oh, god…”

They watch as Tim and Barbara wander over into the open space of the batcave. Barbara tears back her cowl and rubs a hand over her face tiredly. Tim does the same, though his cape winds up strewn out over the floor.

Alfred hurries over and snatches up Tim’s cape, folding it neatly and then draping it over one of the railings. They exchange a few words and the sad look on Alfred’s face returns.

“Shit,” Steph mumbles. “It must’ve been pretty bad.”

Tim hands Jason’s helmet over to Alfred and then excuses himself from the conversation. He speeds over to the lab, fiddling with the plastic bag in his hands. From across the cave, Steph catches Barbara’s eye and she motions for Steph to go after him.

“Don’t cheat,” she says, waggling her finger at Duke. “I’ll be right back to kick your ass.”

Duke just looks at her blankly – she was losing, _horrifically_ too. She backs away slowly, drawing her cape up around her face with her arm and doing a very poor imitation of Bruce’s bat-glare at Duke. “What are you doing?”

“Asserting my dominance.” Duke gives a loud, long-suffering sigh, but Steph doesn’t let up.

She bumps into the wall and, still refusing to break eye contact, gropes blindly for the door handle. Once she finds it, she finally turns away and goes into the room, shooting Duke one last accusing look over her shoulder.

Duke shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This family…”

“Hey, Tim,” Steph says, coming up behind him and peering over his shoulder. “Is that the dart that got Jason?”

Tim nods, not trusting his own voice. Steph backs away, moving to Tim’s side, and Tim focuses on dismantling the dart instead. He can still hear Jason’s voice echoing in his head and it makes him feel nauseous.

Steph rests a hand on his shoulder and he barely manages to suppress his reaction. She frowns. “It was _bad_ , wasn’t it?”

He gives another weak nod, leaning into Steph a little. His hands fumble with the dart. There were tiny smears of red on the tip of the needle and a small amount of toxin still in the chamber. “Jason…” Tim says, slightly croaky. “He woke up in his coffin, and he was… he was just… _god_ , he was just so _scared_.”

She rubs his back comfortingly. Tim feels his hands begin to shake and he sets the dart down on the table. His eyes fall shuts as he tries to compose himself.

“He’s claustrophobic, Steph,” he murmurs after a while. “He told me and I’ve… I’ve seen him have panic attacks. I knew that he woke up in his coffin. But I never… I never put those two together until.”

Tim’s hands move to grip the edges of the table to stop them from trembling so much. “He was so _scared,_ Steph. And there… there wasn’t anything I could do. He had to suffer again – terrified and alone – and there was _nothing_ I could do.”

Steph gives him a soft smile. “You can still help him,” she says, ducking her head down to meet his eye. “He’s gonna need us – _all_ of us. _You can still help him._ ”

Tim nods, sniffling and wiping a hand over his face. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Steph grins wickedly and punches Tim in the arm with as much force as she can muster. “Well, no shit, Sherlock.”

“Ow,” Tim mumbles, rubbing where Steph hit him. She snorts in response.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she says, leering at him playfully. Tim is a lot calmer now, but his hands aren’t nearly steady enough to dismantle the dart. Steph nods towards one of the lab stools. “Why don’t I take over? You can walk me through it.”

Tim drags it over to where they are and perches on it, leaning against the table. “When’d you get so good at all that therapy talk, anyway?”

“I think it’s just my personality; I’m real good with babies,” she says, snickering. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves and picks up the dart. “Nah, I guess I picked up some stuff from Dick and Cass.”

“I’m sure that they’d be proud.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.” She brings up the dart to eye-level, turning it in her hands. “Alright, tell me what to do, nerd.”

Tim rolls his eyes but relents. “There are four buttons around the base. You need to press all of them at once.”

-

When they return to the cave, it’s quiet. On most nights, the air is bright – alive with chatter and post-patrol adrenaline. This time, however, it’s hollow and empty.

Barbara is up at the batcomputer with Duke stood next to her, leaned against the computer chair. They look behind them when Dick’s motorcycle rumbles into the cave. Dick and Cass dismount quietly and Damian gets out of the sidecar without a single word.

Bruce isn’t with them. Barbara and Duke glance at each other. Bruce isn’t with them, which means that he’s still…

Dick tugs off his helmet clumsily and runs a hand through his hair. He tears off his mask, not caring about how much it stings when the glue pulls at his skin. It’s like he’s forgotten that Cass and Damian are even there until Cass grabs his hand, frowning up at him.

Dick stops, closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He rolls his shoulders, trying to force the tension out of them. He’s only successful superficially – the stress and anxiety are clear in every stiff step and sharp breath that he takes. Cass’s frown deepens and Damian watches him carefully.

“How is he?” Barbara calls out, already knowing the answer.

“He’s still…” Dick gestures uncomfortably. “Bruce is there with him.”

There’s something in Dick’s voice that’s unsettling. Something that lurks just below the surface of his usually bright demeanour. Cass knows what it is immediately: _anger_.

Anger, surprisingly enough, is something that Dick is very familiar with. Everyone always pegs Jason as the ‘angry Robin,’ and thus, neglect her eldest brother’s wrath.

Cass always likens Dick’s anger to an explosion – an uncontrolled flurry that, whilst relatively short-lived, is _dangerous_. It could push him to do things that he would never do otherwise; it’s overwhelming enough to push him to _kill_. His fury comes as a thunderous voice, and righteousness, and painful things that you don’t really mean but say and do because you want someone to _hurt_. It’s dry and cold and callous.

How someone so kind can also be so cruel is something that she’ll never know.

All that she does know is that it _radiates_ from him and it has something to do with the Joker, her father and that awful scar on her brother’s throat. She can only dread how they’re connected.

-

Damian is concerningly quiet. It’s understandable, all things considered, but that doesn’t make it any less worrying. He hasn’t said a single word – not as they fled the rooftop, not as they returned home, not as Cass leads him into the kitchen.

“Little brother,” she calls, peering at him from around the freezer door, “what ice-cream do you want?”

Damian looks at her from his perch on the counter – his face unusually blank – and says nothing. She can tell that he’s still processing, judging by the way that his fingertips claw gently at the edge of the marble countertop and the fact that he’s chewing on the inside of his lip.

“Chocolate,” she answers for him, with a firm nod. She remembers Steph and Jason telling her that chocolate was good for lifting spirits. “Chocolate is good.”

She lugs the ridiculously large container from its drawer and walks across the kitchen. The floor tiles don’t feel nearly as cold as they had been before, but they still send little icy sparks up her legs. She sets the container down and notes that Damian visibly flinches at the noise.

She makes a point of looking at him so that he has the time compose himself. Her littlest brother was very prideful, and she doesn’t want to upset him. She roots through the drawers, watching out of the corner of her eye as Damian runs a hand through his hair (a nervous tick that all of her brothers seem to share) and tugs at the collar of his pyjama shirt.

She lets out a quiet, triumphant noise as she finds the scoop buried beneath the tea towels (presumably hidden there by Alfred and Bruce in an attempt to combat her ice-cream habit. The fools). She heaps the ice-cream into two bowls and then carries the noticeably less heavy tub back into the freezer.

She hands Damian his bowl and climbs up onto the counter, next to him. Alfred certainly wouldn’t approve of their choice of seating, but he’s still in the cave and Cass is certain that he’d make an exception – this is an emergency, after all.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Cass quite happily eating and Damian watching passively as his ice-cream melts. Cass has always eaten quickly – it’s a force of habit, she supposes. It’s better than it used to be: she wolfs it down like she hasn’t eaten all day instead of shovelling it into her mouth faster than she can chew. Now that she thinks about it, Jason does the same, though it’s clearly something that he’s forced himself to grow out of.

She sets her empty bowl down and looks over to Damian, frowning slightly. Damian is sensitive and empathetic, even if he tries to pretend that he isn’t. It’s gradually become more obvious as he’s becoming more comfortable at the manor.

“Little brother.”

Nothing.

“Dami.”

Nothing.

“Damian.”

Nothing.

She cocks her head to the side, thinking of an appropriate next step. She turns her spoon in her hand and suddenly has an idea. Slowly, she brings her hand up behind Damian and presses the cold metal of the spoon against the back of his neck.

Immediately, Damian jolts forwards, almost coming off the counter, and his hand swipes behind him defensively. His eyes meet Cass’ in a furious glare and she looks back at him amusedly – that’s the little brother that she loves. “What was the meaning of that?”

She shrugs, reaching over to touch him with the spoon again. He swats her hand and narrows his eyes at her, though it lacks any real malice.

“You’re thinking too much.” She jabs his forehead with her index finger, and he lets her with nought but a small wrinkling of his nose. “It’s no good to get inside your head.”

Damian bristles, pulling away slightly, and makes a haughty face – Cass always thinks that the expression makes him look like his mother. She raises an eyebrow and shifts so her body is turned to him.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, bringing her knees up to her chest. “You’re worried, and that’s okay.”

“I am _not_ ,” Damian mutters – Cass probably wouldn’t have heard him if it weren’t for the silence of the kitchen. The expression that flickers across his face is entirely his – _their_ – father.

“It’s okay,” she says again, because she needs him to believe that. “It’s okay to care. We all do.”

Damian shuffles closer to her and she smiles at him. Her littlest brother has never been very good with words, or with feelings, but that’s okay too.

-

The batmobile roars into the cave – so loud that it shakes the walls and brings down a horde of bats from the shadows. It comes to a rolling stop alongside the collection of motorcycles and, after a few moments, Bruce climbs out. His boots make soft thuds against the solid rock of the floor and it echoes in the awful silence. Bruce is _exhausted_.

His armour comes off in pieces, scattered across the cave floor in his wake: his cowl and cape, then his belt, then the Kevlar, and finally his boots. He comes up to the batcomputer and slumps into the computer chair – the creak of leather is painfully familiar.

He swallows roughly, eyes flickering shut. Jason is screaming again, and Bruce isn’t sure if it’s a hallucination or just a memory. It _feels_ real; his son’s voice dragging along the cave walls like he’s right behind Bruce.

Jason’s crying, or is about to – Bruce can always pick it out in his voice. In the way that it cracks and catches in his throat like he’s about to shatter. There are very few things that cut into him like that sound does.

“You replaced me. I was _dead_ and you replaced me like it was _nothing_.” Jason’s voice is soft and low and _broken_. Bruce can’t stand it when it’s like that. He can’t it when Jason – who’s always so full of passion and fire – sounds so _defeated_. It’s worse than the screaming because, at least when Jason is angry and shouting and aggressive, Bruce can pretend that it’s a fight. Bruce knows how to fight like he knows how to breathe.

But _this_ – his son trembling and holding back tears and sounding like every bit of the _child_ that he is – this isn’t a fight, and Bruce never knows what to do. He loves all of his children but none of them get to him like Jason does. None of them make him feel as vulnerable and helpless and _guilty_ as Jason does.

“You chose _him_ over me.” Bruce can feel himself tearing up. “I didn’t expect you to do it, and I didn’t expect you to let _me_ do it, but I _never_ expected that you’d actually try to _kill_ me to save him.”

Bruce shudders as a sob forces its way out of him. His hands shake as he logs into the batcomputer and brings up a file.

“What if it had been Dick?”

That makes him tense up. Jason has always had a sharp tongue – he jabs at every weak spot in Bruce’s armour until he finds the right one and then, he pries it open with his bare hands. It never seems to matter how well Bruce manages to hide his reaction; Jason always knows when he’s hit a nerve.

“Would you have done it then?”

Bruce closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath. It feels like he’s drowning.

“I’d understand if you said yet. He’s your favourite – the _golden_ son – and I was always just some street rat that you felt sorry for.”

Bruce remembers that moment, remembers looking into Jason’s eyes – certain that they hadn’t always been so dark – and knowing that Jason believed _every_ word. Bruce also remembers not being able to answer, and that had been worse than saying ‘yes.’

He goes for the first video that he can reach. The video comes up – the batcave, too long ago. Robin is stood on the batmobile, a grin spread across his face. Bruce – younger in more ways than one – approaches him and he flips down.

“This is awesome!” Jason says, throwing a kick into the air. “I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder.”

That Bruce gives a low chuckle and ruffles the boy’s hair. “That’s right, champ.”

Jason takes off across the cave, cape fluttering behind him. “I’m Robin and being Robin gives me magic!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the excessive angst. It will (maybe) get a little lighter further on but for now, this is all I got. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, I'm not really sure if all the characters are /completely/ in-character, so if you feel like they aren't, please do say because I wanna make this good.


	4. Not All Scars.

The first thing that Jason does when he finally musters the energy to get up is head into the bathroom and straight into the shower. The cold water reminds him of the colour green, but he pushes away that thought and lets his mind run blank.

His gear has been neatly stacked beside the mattress (courtesy of Bruce, he thinks absently), and he notes that his helmet is nowhere to be seen. It’s probably at the manor – he’s sure that one of them took it.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Right now, there are very few things that he wants to do than go there and face them. The thought makes his chest tighten with dread, but he can’t pinpoint why.

They won’t… He knows that they won’t judge him for whatever it is that they’ve seen and it’s not like he’s ashamed of any of it. It’s hardly his fault that his life has been a shit-show.

He just… doesn’t like that they potentially know about almost _every_ fucked-up thing that has ever happened to him. They aren’t going to judge him, but they _are_ going to feel sorry for him. It’s understandable, but he still _hates_ it.

Jason’s relationship with his ‘family’ is, at the best of times, _very_ complicated. It’s an awkward, jolting dance that Jason can’t quite figure out the rhythm of. He’s also perpetually aware of the fact that he’s on _thin_ fucking ice – that, at any moment, it could all shatter underneath him and he’s entirely sure that he’ll be able to pull himself out of the water.

When Jason returned to Gotham as the Red Hood for the second time, he purposefully kept his distance – played the scary asshole to keep them away. He preferred it like that, or he thought he did, at least; no one could hurt him if he didn’t have anyone to begin with, right?

He hadn’t always been alone, though. He had to remind himself of that, because _god_ , had it felt like it.

Talia dropped in every few weeks to check up on him, and he knew better than to think that she wasn’t keeping tabs on him. “You look tired, Jason,” she always said (though, he supposed that it was always true), her hands cupping his face. It made him melt, because, back then, he could barely remember the touch of someone who didn’t want to hurt him. “Have you been sleeping?” When he was stupid and got himself hurt, she called and scolded him, though her tone was too soft to be anything but motherly.

Roy and Kori called at least once a week, but they were busy and they only visited Gotham to cover for him when he was injured (they’d always come when he asked, and they’d have come more if only he’d asked more). Those brief moments were some of Jason’s favourite. They were filled with a freeness and a joy that Jason had almost forgotten. It was rarely ever ‘Jason’ with Roy and Kori; it was always ‘Jaybird’ and, as much as he protested it, the nickname left a feeling like warm sunlight in his chest.

Sometimes, Roy brought Lian with him. Jason loved his goddaughter very dearly and she called him ‘Uncle Jay’ and demanded piggy-back rides. She turned six a few months ago and he would do _anything_ for her.

And then, there were the street kids, who flocked around him whenever he comes down from the rooftops. They cling to the sleeves of his jacket and call him ‘Mr. Hood’ (no matter how many times he tells them that they don’t have to), and, most of all, they remind him of why he does what he does. Whenever he feels comfortable enough to take off his helmet, their eyes light up and they never seem to mind the brand on his face. They beam at the East Gotham lilt in his voice and they trust him to protect them because he’s one of them and street kids look after their own.

The working girls (and boys) grin languidly at him when he checks on them. They don’t seem to mind the brand either. They wink and laugh when pink flares up in his face. “The cutest vigilante this side of the Atlantic,” one of them said, punctuated by a sly arm snaked around his waist. He cackled at the way Jason stumbled mid-sentence.

The nuns at the orphanage were wary of him at first. But he was on the verge of blacking out, and the children _begged_ them to help Mr Hood. When he woke up, the mother superior clucked her tongue at how stupid and reckless he was to be out there in that weather, but then, she sat down and spoke with him. Her eyes flickered over his scars – with a warmness that Jason wasn’t used to – and eventually rested on his.

“You’re too young,” she murmured, taking his hand into hers, “to have eyes as old as yours. The world hasn’t been kind to you, my dear, has it?” Jason cried and she let him, and it was the first time in too long that he felt like a child.

He hadn’t always been alone, but when he was the realisation was _crushing_.

Sometimes, it was when stumbled into one of his safehouses in the early hours of the morning, bloody and bruised. He’d gotten good at tending to his own wounds, because, as much as he liked to believe that he’d stopped fighting like a Robin – like he had someone there beside him – it was a hard habit to kick and, on occasion, it cost him.

His hands grazed over his skin – always too cold – and suddenly, he was in the batcave. He was twelve again and buzzing off his own excitement (he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that happy in Gotham). Alfred and Bruce were there and he felt safe.

Except he wasn’t. He was nineteen and so _tired_ and, in that tiny safe house, he was alone. If he bled out on that shitty floor, how long would it take for them to notice? _Would_ they? Would they care?

He didn’t have time to think about that. He had a bullet hole in his shoulder that he needed to tend to and tears that he needed to ignore.

Other times, it was when he saw them. He would never get close enough for them to notice him, but he could get close enough to _hear_ them. Damian and Bruce. Steph and Tim. Cass and Duke. Damian and Dick. Cass and Barbara. Barbara and Duke.

It never mattered _who_ it was – the dynamic may not have always been the same, but the _feeling_ was. The feeling of family was always like a knife between his ribs.

They were a team that Jason just wasn’t a part of anymore. He’d been forced out a long time ago, and life carried on. The laughter and the nicknames and the inside jokes cut right through him. From there on, it was a downward spiral of what-ifs and maybes and could-have-beens.

Most of the time, though, it was absolutely nothing at all. He would be in the shower or the middle of a book or cooking or in the _grocery store_ for fuck’s sake, and his mind would wander and he’d realise just how alone he really was. What happened after was never pleasant.

He steps out of the shower, slicking his wet hair back and out of his eyes. _Yeah_ , he thinks, staring at himself in the mirror, _I’m glad it’s not like that anymore_.

His eyes trace over the ‘y’ of the autopsy scar and then flicker between the other ones that little his body. Patches of skin turned white by acid and fire. The collection of needle marks on the side of his neck. Bullet holes and knife wounds.

He doesn’t remember when or where he received most of them, though. He doesn’t remember when they all started to blend together either.

When he was Robin, he was proud of them – however few there were back then. They were medals that he’d _earned_.

When he came back, he _hated_ them. They were a reminder of betrayal and suffering and a life that he’d never get to live, that had been _stolen_. They were proof that he’d been nothing but a little toy soldier that was wound up and marched into battle until he was too _broken_ to be useful anymore. And then, he was _replaced_. He vowed that he’d never _belong_ to anyone again – not _him_ and certainly not Bruce.

But, now, he doesn’t really feel much of anything when he looks at them. He doesn’t _like_ them, but he’s made peace with the fact that they’re there and they aren’t going away in a hurry.

“All wounds heal, but not all scars fade. One day, you’ll have to accept that, Jason,” Talia said to him once. He frowned and dismissed it as some cryptic, vaguely poetic-sounding bullshit that adults said that was only meaningful if you didn’t look at it for too long. He also told her as much and she just smiled at him. “Perhaps you’ll understand when you’re older.”

He still doesn’t understand, but he thinks about it a lot.

“All wounds heal, but not all scars fade,” he mumbles to himself, pulling on his spare clothes. They smell like dust and he doesn’t really know how long they’ve been in that dresser. He stuffs all of his gear into a duffel bag. “I’ll figure out what the fuck that means someday, Talia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last two chapters were very heavily focused on the rest of the batfam, here's a Jason-centric one for you guys. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not overly happy with this one, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> The next chapter will probably go into the relationship between Jason and Duke - mostly because it's one of my personal favourites and also because Duke is severely underrated and deserves to be involved in more stuff. It'll also likely include the others, but the main focus will likely be on Duke and Jason. 
> 
> You can also talk to me on my Tumblr (redandred-der). Feel free to dm me whatever you want and I might even start doing a prompt writing type thing if I can get enough requests.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	5. Picking Up The Pieces

The sound of Duke’s phone going off almost gives him a heart attack. It takes him a second to recognise the ringtone – a loud burst of static, like a radio coming to life – and he scrambles across the room to get it.

_Hey._

He waits for his heartbeat to return to a less erratic pace before replying. He can’t remember when Jason changed the ringtone and it’s never failed to scare the daylights out of him. It’d be easy enough for him to change it, but he hasn’t. Something stupidly sentimental inside of him – the part of him that desperately wants to feel like family – actually likes it.

_What’s up? how are you feeling?_

Duke perches on the edge of his bed.

_Better, I guess? It’s like I’m really hungover._

_Like, reeeaaallly hungover._

_I’m surprised that I haven’t thrown up yet._

Duke rolls his eyes. Though, most of him is glad that Jason seems to be doing okay. Then again, Jason will almost certainly be cracking jokes on his deathbed if it means comforting someone else – so perhaps not.

_That sucks dude._

_Is my helmet at the manor? I can’t find it anywhere._

Duke briefly wonders if he’s the first person that Jason has messaged. Surely Jason would’ve asked one of the others first?

_Yeah, Tim brought it with him._

_Cool, thanks._

_Can I ask you for a favour?_

_what is it?_

_Do you mind bringing it to me? I don’t think I can go to the manor right now._

He can’t really blame Jason for that. If it were him, he probably wouldn’t want to see anyone either. Still, it begs the question of why Jason doesn’t just ask one of the others.

_yeah sure, no problem. Where are you?_

_I’m on my way to the nice safe house. Meet me there?_

_Robinson or GCPD?_

_Robinson, thank you._

He grabs his jacket and bag off the end of his bed and makes his way out.

_Okay, I can be there in like half an hour._

_Do you want anyone to know?_

_Idk._

_Just don’t bring anyone with you._

_Please._

_No problem. See you later._

He slips his phone into his pocket and heads downstairs. There’s a staircase in the west wing of the manor that no one beside Alfred uses.

_Can I ask you something else?_

_yeah, what’s up?_

_How much did you see?_

He stops mid-step. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jason doesn’t know how much he saw – Jason doesn’t know how much _any_ of them saw.

_Up to the part with your mom. Steph and I left before anything else happened._

_I don’t know how much the others saw._

He realises that he doesn’t actually know _where_ Jason’s helmet is. The last person who had it was Alfred – so that’s probably the best place to start.

_I’m sorry you had to see that._

_It wasn’t your fault_

_How is everyone else?_

_A little shook up. We’ll all be fine._

He turns into the kitchen. Alfred is stood over the countertop, pouring something into a flask.

“Good afternoon, Duke.”

“Hey, Alfred,” he says, stalling in the doorway. “D’you know where Jason’s helmet is? He asked me to get it for him.”

He goes to hold up his phone but stops himself halfway, grimacing at how awkward the movement is. Alfred turns fully, screwing the lid onto the flask. “I left it downstairs,” Alfred says warmly. “With the other equipment.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says quickly, ducking out of the kitchen.

“How is Jason?”

Duke can’t quite bring himself to completely turn back around and look at Alfred because he knows that Alfred is going to be wearing the same _sad_ expression that he had last night. He settles for facing the doorframe and watching Alfred out of the corner of his eye. “He… He seems okay. But it’s _Jason_ , so I don’t… I don’t know how much of that is just him pretending.”

Alfred nods and then reaches out to hand Duke something. The flask.

“I intended to give it to him myself when I found the time,” Alfred says as Duke takes it. “But seeing as though you’re going to him, perhaps you could do me the favour. Chicken noodle soup was always a favourite of his.”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He slips it carefully into his bag. “I’ll give it to him.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem, Alfred.”

_dude._

_Alfred made you soup._

_Sweet._

_He’s worried about you._

_You should call him._

_I know._

“Hey, Duke,” Barbara says, passing him. “Going out?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, considering whether he should tell her. “Jason wanted me to get his helmet for him.”

“Oh,” she says, stopping. “How is he?”

“Fine. I think.”

“Good,” she says brightly. “Is this a solo mission or can I tag along?”

“He… Jason said that he didn’t want anyone else to come,” says Duke. “Sorry.”

“Oh, well. No problem,” she replies with a short shrug. “Tell Jason to call me when he’s feeling better.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Duke.” She rests a hand on his shoulder. “And, if you’re going downstairs, I’d give it a few minutes.” She leans in a little closer. “Bruce and Dick are having a little… _disagreement._ ”

-

The elevator doors open silently and Duke steps out.

“-‘t give me that bullshit, Brice,” Dick spits. He gestures violently and coffee spills out over the floor from the mug in his hand. “You can’t just pretend that nothing happened. I won’t let you do that to him.”

“Dick,” Bruce says placatingly. “I’m-”

“You almost _killed_ him to protect that fucking monster,” he yells, launching the mug across the cave. Bruce ducks and it shatters on the floor behind him. “You left him to _die_ , Bruce. There’s _nothing_ you can say to justify that.”

“Dick-”

“No wonder Jason thought we hated him,” Dick says, voice calmer but no less venomous. “I don’t- I can’t even fucking look at you.”

He storms past Duke – seemingly unaware that he’s even there – and into the elevator. The doors slide shut and Bruce lets out a quiet sigh, looking completely exhausted. Duke glances between the elevator doors and Bruce unsurely. Should he just leave? Maybe it’d be better if he came back later. Jason would understand that, right?

“Hey, Duke,” Bruce says, voice only slightly betraying him. His expression changes to something vaguely more alive like someone had flicked a switch. If Duke weren’t so used to it, it probably would have been unsettling. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Dick and I haven’t argued like that in a very long time.”

“It’s fine,” Duke says, coming down the steps.

“Do you need anything?” Bruce asks, settling into his façade a little more. He seems actually happy to see Duke. “Because I think you’re a little early for patrol.” Bruce gives a smile and a quiet chuckle.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Duke says, wandering across the cave. Bruce is still in the batsuit, though most of it is scattered across the cave floor. “Jason texted me. He asked me to get his helmet for him.”

“Oh, really?” Some emotion flickers across Bruce’s face so quickly that Duke barely manages to catch it. He’s not quite figured out _what_ emotion it is, but it’s rare that Bruce is ever vulnerable enough to show it. Then again, Jason does have a way of whittling at Bruce’s defences.

“Alfred said that he left it down here with the rest of the gear, so I just came down here to grab it.”

Bruce turns stiffly and crouches down, collecting the broken pieces of Dick’s mug. “How is he?”

“He seems okay,” Duke says. “But I guess I’ll see when I get there.”

Bruce nods. “Do you need a ride into the city?”

“Yeah? I mean, only if it’s not too much hassle.”

“Of course, it’s not. I’m sure that Alfred would say that the fresh air would do me some good,” Bruce says mildly, walking over to the changing room. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”

-

Jason’s helmet is heavier than Duke thought it would be. It’s not _unreasonably_ heavy, but it’s heftier than the way Jason tosses it around led him to believe.

“Try not to jostle it around too much, sport,” Bruce says, resting a hand over Duke’s. “I’m not sure if Jason still has them rigged.”

 _“Rigged?”_ Duke repeats, holding at arms’ length. “Like with _explosives_?”

“Jay’s always had a flair for the dramatic,” Bruce replies, voice strangely proud. His smile falters slightly, like he’s suddenly remembering something, and he clears his throat. “It’d be a shame if we had to throw it out of the window.”

Duke stares at him for a moment, not completely sure whether Bruce is fucking with him, before deciding that no, Bruce is _absolutely_ serious. He looks at Jason’s helmet and then carefully slips it into his bag on the floor – just when he’d started to think that Jason was the sensible Robin. Thinking about it, he really should have known better.

“It was the safehouse by Robison Park, wasn’t it?” Bruce asks as the car rounds a corner.

“Yeah,” Duke replies, knowing fully that Bruce already knows that. He thinks back to the argument that he and Dick were having. It was about Jason – Bruce did something to him that was bad enough for Dick to blow up on him like that. Something that Jason relived last night that Dick didn’t know about before.

**“You almost _killed_ him to protect that fucking monster.”**

It has something to do with the Joker and that, in itself, makes Duke sure that he’s probably better off not knowing.

  **“No wonder Jason thought we hated him.”**

Duke definitely doesn’t want to know. He just wants to make sure that Jason’s okay.

“Here we are,” Bruce says, bringing the car to a stop in the parking lot. “Text me when you need a ride back.”

“Okay,” Duke replies, undoing his seatbelt. “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Take care of him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will. Thank you.”

Bruce doesn’t drive away until Duke reaches the entrance. The door is locked and Duke pulls his phone out.

_Hey, I’m here? Buzz me in?_

The door unlocks with a low beep.

_Was that Bruce in the parking lot?_

_Yeah._

_Is that okay?_

He starts to climb the stairs and is grateful that he’s been working on his cardio lately – Jason apartment is on the sixth floor and Duke’s legs are already starting to ache at the thought.

_It’s fine. I was just curious._

_I can’t remember the last time he drove himself anywhere._

_bm?_

_That doesn’t count._

By the time that Duke reached the sixth floor, his calves are sore with the kind of ache that he only usually gets after patrols. He curses Jason for not living on a lower floor and wanders down the hallway until he reaches Jason’s apartment.

He hesitates for a moment before knocking and it takes a minute for Jason to answer.

Jason doesn’t look great. He looks better than he did last night, but he still looks like he’s about to pass out – unnaturally pale. His eyes are also definitely greener than they usually are, which, from what Duke knows, is not a good thing.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Jason replies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come in.”

He steps to the side to let Duke pass and then shuts the door behind them. Jason’s clothes smell like citrus and bleach, and so does the rest of his apartment – which means that he’s been stress cleaning. Everything is even more spotless than it usually is.

“You feeling okay?” Duke asks, digging through his bag. He pulls out Jason’s helmet and hands it to him.

“Better,” Jason says with a cough. He rolls his helmet across the floor and through his open bedroom door. Duke grimaces at how rough Jason is with it and Jason looks at him with a bemused expression. “What? I’ll put it away later.”

“It’s not… It’s not that,” Duke says. “I just… Is it true that it’s rigged with explosives?”

“Ah.” There’s a smile playing across Jason’s mouth as he turns away. “Bruce told you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

Jason gives a bark of laughter and claps his hands together. “The first time I came to Gotham as the Red Hood, I almost blew Bruce up with it. Should have seen his face when it started counting down. _Priceless_.” He leans across the couch. “But, between you and me, I stopped rigging them three years ago.”

“Why would you do that in the first place?” Duke’s voice is full of exasperation. “You could have blown your own head off.”

“I know,” Jason says quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t exactly in a great place back then. I think that part of me kinda _hoped_ that it’d go off.” He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, that’s fucking dark, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be offloading this onto you.”

Duke’s expressions softens and he looks at Jason. “It’s fine, dude. Don’t worry about it. You can talk about it if you need to.”

“Let’s just… change the subject, I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna think about _that_ right now.”

-

“Why did you ask me?” Duke says, spraying one of Jason’s kitchen windows with cleaner.

“Ask you what?” Jason calls back, halfway through scrubbing the inside of his oven.

“To come here.” He begins to wipe down the window. “I’d have thought that you’d ask Tim or Cass or Steph, Barbara even. But you didn’t.”

Duke glances over his shoulder and notices that Jason is statue-still. Jason sits up and rolls the tension out of his shoulder. “I don’t have any bad memories of you,” he replies eventually, voice a little uneven. “I’ve been remembering things – things that I regret. People that I’ve hurt.” He sighs. “But I don’t have any bad memories of you.”

Duke nods and they return to their cleaning to the tune of Jason’s playlist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DC needs to give me my Jason and Duke series already. 
> 
> Hopefully, the formatting for the texts works properly. It's supposed to be laid out like a regular text conversation - so Duke's messages are on the right and Jason's are on the left (in case that wasn't clear). 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guess what I did instead of being productive? Comments and kudos are appreciated, thanks for reading!


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